by Ash Krafton
Two women, plainly dressed, slightly older, and genuinely smiling stood in the door. One of them held Senza’s bags.
“Oh, here they are, Miss Constance.” Mrs. Forrest waved the women into the room. “This is Mrs. Reeves, our cook—and you will fall in love with her duck pie, I know it—and Mrs. Roberts, our housekeeper. She will tend personally to you.”
“It’s been a long time since we had so distinguished a guest,” Roberts said. “My own girls are grown, but I think I remember a thing or two of the needs of a lady in society.”
So strange. She really hadn’t known what to expect the entire ride to Chelsea. Now, she had an apartment and a household, besides. She paced around the room, admiring the décor. Quite modern, compared to the Fyne household in Surrey, where her father had been a champion of the time-honored traditional.
In the center stood a single, small couch, not nearly large enough for entertaining guests, much to the lamenting of the landlady. Senza nodded her approval, all the same, allowing her hostess to cease the superfluous apologies. Privacy and security were the most precious commodities of all.
“Bedroom is through here, miss.” Roberts carried her suitcases down the short hallway and paused before an open door, allowing Senza to peer in.
The bedroom was a swirl of satin, deep, vibrant hues of dark green and emerald from carpet to drapes and all in between. Compared to the couch, the bed was titanic. Not that anyone besides her would be able to appreciate it. Motioning for her bags to be placed on the bed, she took a moment to admire a vase of fresh cut lilies on the bureau before going back out into the front room again.
“Mrs. Branson, who lives in the apartment below, will be your companion.” Mrs. Forrest adjusted the sheer curtains. “She is a great philanthropist, and very well-connected. Your uncle was very explicit in his instructions that you are to experience everything London has to offer. Theatre, the ballet, concerts of every size…”
Senza tilted her head. “My…uncle?”
“Why, yes, Miss Constance. Mr. Knell wrote often, and in great detail, to arrange your comfort. We are so pleased he thought of us. Mrs. Branson is so looking forward to meeting you at supper this evening.” She continued on, describing the menu and Mrs. Branson’s work with the various charitable groups around London and so forth but Senza barely heard a word.
Knell. He’d done all of this. Of course, he had. She was his beloved. He would see to her every need.
Senza lifted her chin, turning to face the matron. “Did my uncle mention when he would be joining me?”
“No, I don’t believe he did.” The landlady knitted her brows and seemed to search her memory. “In fact, I don’t recall that at all. I took the distinct impression that he resided a great distance from here. I can get his letters for you.”
Mrs. Forrest left Senza alone and retreated down the stairs, presumably to retrieve the missives. Roberts and Reeves bowed and retreated behind their mistress.
Once they were out of earshot, Senza checked the locks on the apartment door, the bedroom door, the windows. Solid. Everything was secure and solid. Even the powder room had a lock on the door, but that didn’t concern her much.
She wasn’t one for powder rooms. The tiles were very pretty, though.
She spent the afternoon unpacking and dressing for supper, passing the time reading until the dinner bell sounded. Knell’s letters were strewn across the table. He truly had seen to every comfort on her behalf, his thin spidery script filling several pages, listing his demands for his “niece”.
Nothing in those notes indicated he would ever be joining her. Senza frowned and watched the sky take on the richer hues of evening. What a truly disappointing turn of events. Not that she’d expected him to greet her with open arms—she wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected. But this, all the arrangements, the apartment and the staff, even the chaperone she’d soon be meeting… All of it, contrived for a purpose only Knell had the advantage of knowing.
She felt very much like a kept woman, indeed.
Mrs. Branson only emphasized the notion. The woman reminded her very much of an elderly aunt. She was pleasant, with powdered cheeks and a very cultured voice that reminded her of the matrons that had attended the same balls as she in her youth. There was a familiar feel to her ways.
But, by the time dinner was over, Senza had gotten the impression that the woman planned on being a constant chaperone. The very notion of it made her want to laugh and dismiss her.
Once she looked up, however, and spied her own reflection in the room length mirror that lined the wall, her rebuke died in her throat. She saw what the world saw: an innocent girl, barely twenty years old, an ingénue.
London was no place for a girl alone.
Dutifully, she played the part Knell had written for her. The matron took Senza with her everywhere, and introduced her to everyone worth knowing. London’s upper class society in 1881 spent a great deal of time ignoring poverty and want, yet there were still a stalwart few who honestly tried to save their corner of the world. Mrs. Brandon was one such person, and she seemed quite eager to take Senza on as her charge.
And, oh, the places they went.
By and by, Senza forgot her initial resentment over Knell’s imposition and Mrs. Branson’s near-constant chaperoning. There were carriage rides, and art expositions, and reading by the local talent—Chelsea seemed to be an absolute haven for writers, and the parties were chock-full of intellectuals. Senza enjoyed the frequent opportunities to engage in lively discussions with the very people who created the art she so much admired.
Equally, she enjoyed thwarting those with more philosophical pursuits, particularly regarding the multi-faceted gem of topics: death.
She could quote the great Classical minds with eloquence, use any relevant line of Shakespeare to support her positions—which was always solidly the exact opposite of those of her debate opponents. It was true sport for Senza, who would begin as an apt student, listening to the puffed-chest spouters of false expertise. She listened, wide-eyed and silent, drinking in every word. However, what her learned betters thought was admiration-imbued interest and a sincere desire to learn was actually the camouflaged shrewdness of a woman preparing for battle, gleaning her opponents’ strengths, weaknesses, and ultimate position before strategizing the most shocking destruction of their pompous positions.
A green child on the outside, a calculating sniper on the inside, orchestrating a very one-sided war of words. The only regrets Senza had was that the great scholars crumpled too soon. No one would argue with a lady, especially not with one who spoke with the charm of a courtesan, the eloquence of an aristocrat, and the authority of someone who had seen the other side of death and lived to tell the tale.
Secretly, she’d always hoped Knell would appear and take up a cheerful stance against her, or that one of these pipe-smoking mortals would impart an insight she’d never considered. At most, however, the debates were a way to pass the time, a respite until the men went back to admiring her beauty and unknowingly filling her locket with hot pulses of feckless hope.
Conversation with Mrs. Branson generally remained entrenched within the realm of A Woman’s Duties in Society and the curriculum she’s set up for the education of her charge. Occasionally, Senza would spy Winnie’s name in the newspaper and make an innocuous inquiry.
“No, can’t say I have met him. A lawyer, you say? Different circle, dear. I don’t expect we will cross paths with him, unless there is a particularly large public ball. Even then, we would not be pursuing introduction.”
“But his wife…surely she’s in good society?”
“I’m sure she is, Constance. But I imagine the wife of a successful lawyer is busy entertaining with her husband’s clients and partners. London is a vastly large city, Senza. You cannot expect to know everyone.”
Senza had made several more inquiries along the same topic but, by the first year’s end, she’d neither glimpsed her married cousin nor harbored
any hopes of seeing her any time soon.
Perhaps it was for the best. She would hate to don those smothering veils again.
In time, Senza knew the great city as well as she knew her home in Surrey. The newness had dimmed, so much like old snow along the roadside, muddied by days of sloppy travel. The once-bright and promising became matte-finished commonplace, every-day unremarkable. Stripped of the distractions of new discovery, Senza fell into older routines, longing for something new to stir her heart, and allowed herself to daydream about Knell more frequently.
Knell occasionally stalked the grand parties, always at an uncrossable distance from her. He was persistently across the crowded room, up on a balcony, drifting out into the gardens. She possessed an instinct to pick him out, a heightened sense of his presence, often pausing mid-sentence and turning away to scrutinize the fringe of the crowd.
Sometimes, it was just his scent she caught, a rogue fragrance that stole her breath. Other times, it was a quiet voice whose timbre plucked certain strings within her, making her momentarily dizzy with the sweet vibration. She’d catch a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, and she’d see him ghosting along the edge of the room.
Yet, for all that she was the center of society’s world, never once did he turn his head in her direction. Their eyes never met. He never acknowledged her presence.
It curdled her blood, and sometimes the fury would grip her so terrible that she’d fist her hands and nearly—quite nearly—lose that cold aloofness that had come to define the depth of her beauty.
She had been the prize of the county in 1860. She had been the woman most pursued by every eligible man. Every evening she found herself surrounded by dozens of men and women who wanted nothing more than to be close to her, to hold her in their hungry gazes, to aspire to her hand, her friendship, her bed.
And to think, the one to whom she would give her heart—to whom she’d given her life!—would simply vanish from her world. It wounded her on countless levels, from her pride to the deepest recesses of her wilted heart.
They had shared an experience so profound that it literally transcended life itself and he hadn’t spoken to her since. Jilted, outright jilted. Had they been courting, it would have been a scandal. Had they been lovers, it would have sent her straight into tragic melancholy.
But this was worse than losing a beau or a lover. He’d separated her from the world, brought her into a stand-still picture frame of Life Once Lived, and secluded her from the tinkerings of the Universe itself. He brought her into his world, where only he existed as did she, her only compatriot. And some nights, before she shut herself down, she allowed herself to remember the last time she’d held him before flash-forwarding to the last time she’d caught sight of him, his eyes sliding over her as if she were nothing at all. A split-second of remembrance. That was all she could endure. Any longer and she’d surrender to the mercies of a terrible and desperate despair.
Senza would bite her lips and wait for the sting in her eyes to subside, before reminding herself that his attention was not the reason she chose this Unlife. She’d done all this to survive. To outlast. To conquer. And she would not let the trembling of a lonely heart conquer her, not when she’d outrun Death itself. That feat alone allowed her to lift a smug chin to the notion of loneliness.
You are of my world now. He had told her that, the day he took her life. Just as he ghosted along the fringe of society, touching no one, loving no one, so then must she. She would strive to be of his world, alone and separate and perpetually apart. It would please him.
She hardened what she had left of her heart, forming a barrier around that fresh, tender spot that would always belong to him.
So often she reminded herself of these things that it hastened her separation from the world around her. She fed off the praise and the lingering looks of her admirers, fuel to the fires of her vanity. She grew cool and distant, arrogant and superior, characteristics that had been completely unknown in the girl before her Unbirthing. Those in her social circles marked it as a sign of aristocracy, of fine breeding.
Only she knew the truth. It was a defense. She could never again yield to the frightened girl hidden away in that deep dark corner of her being.
Mrs. Branson’s constant supervision gradually lost its comforting appeal. After more than seven years, Senza began to view her more as a warden than a companion.
Yes, she realized she still looked eighteen, and more than once Mrs. Branson’s advancing age and failing memory ensured that eighteen was all Senza would ever be. Inside, she was forty-six, endowed with a life-time of experience, inside society, outside life itself. A seed of discontent took root, and flourished as Senza grew to resent being treated like a child.
Her outsides never changed, just as Knell had promised. Senza wore a countenance of naïve contentment, of wonder, of elegance to be in London at the height of fashion. It was her role to play.
Although they spent most of their entertaining in the surrounding neighborhoods, occasionally, they would have to travel some distance to attend some fete or another. London was growing and expanding at an astronomical rate, with new money and the newly rich popping up in all sorts of places. Senza was glad of it; she had grown bored within the confines of Chelsea, having seen all there was to see. Her borders were expanding and she longed to see more of the world to which she’d belong for an eternity to come.
Senza peered through the lacey curtains of her guardian’s carriage while they rode, her chin on her fist. The world passed unceasingly around her while she sat still, posed like the subject of a painting, trapped for all time in a fresh moment.
The irony was not lost on her.
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, jostling Mrs. Branson from her doze. Her half-snore was most unladylike. Rubbing her mouth, she smoothed the front of her dress. “Where are we?”
“Mmm.” Senza slid her gaze back outside. “I’m not sure I recognize this section.”
Compared to the quiet splendor of their street in Chelsea, this area was positively a circus. People milled about in the streets, the din of their voices carrying through the padded walls of the carriage.
All manner of mankind seemed out and about: thickly-chinned men in black suits, wearing tall top hats and swinging walking sticks, women with drawn faces and untidy hair, sleeves rolled to the elbows to reveal pink-scald hands. Farmers leading pigs to the market. Young men selling papers, girls singing out wares of their own: flowers and fruit and matches and knitted scarves. Children in patched pants and caps too large to stay up over their ears darted in between the adults, all of whom seemed to have some type of urgent business, if their quick paces and lowered brows were any indication.
The sheer chaos of the crowded street pressed in at Senza, nearly upsetting her composure. Closing her eyes, she listened to the dull roar and imagined she could, for a moment, hear each of their heartbeats, pounding like the hooves of horses on the race course at Lingfield. There, out there, was life. It was living. She longed to stand in that street, feel the brush of skirts against her own, be jostled out of the way by a careless child, make every man stop in their tracks just to tip their hats at her. To be out there, in this great ocean of life, and to drown in it—
Her hand was upon the cold latch of the door. She didn’t even remember moving. The sound of heartbeats pumped in her head, thumped against her skin with a tantalizing rhythm. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.
She swayed, her head dizzy. A dreamy smile crept across her lips, and she suddenly grew hungry. Lately, her appetite had increased, as if the diet of pulses to which she’d become accustomed were no longer enough. Surrounded here by so many hearts, so much life—a flame ignited in the pit of her stomach.
Senza smoothed the sudden lust from her expression, knowing Mrs. Branson would remark upon it. She was in no mood for another one of her tedious lectures.
Instead, she gazed out at the masses of humanity flowing in turbulent currents through them. What kind of
lives did they lead? And where could they possibly be going? It seemed an impossibility that every single person lead an individual lifetime and yet, there they were, skirts flipping at their dirty heels. Ladies of some breeding mixed with scullery maids, attorneys striding amongst butchers. Everyone, all together, like a great pot of English soup.
They arrived at their host’s home, mercifully some distance from the noisiest center of the cacophony. A towering iron-wrought fence, topped with cruel spikes separated the common from the owners of the manor, and a great topiary attempted to muffle the manor in a bubble of contrived peace.
Mrs. Branson sniffed her disdain. “This is what new money buys. Greatness where had stood shambles only the week before. Beautiful, but empty. Superficial. No history, no time-tested dignity.”
Senza only made an assenting sound. The home was lovely, no matter Mrs. Branson’s condemnations of its origins. Considering her own unique situation, Senza was much more open-minded to change and improvement than was her guardian.
New money? Good. At least something would be new, for once.
This particular soiree had been thrown in the honor of one of Mrs. Branson’s charitable cronies, most likely in the effort to curry favor and admittance to the enviable ranks of the old money circles. Mrs. Branson did not disguise the snooty contempt in her tone; if anything, she managed to attain a new level of snobbish. The nouveau rich hopefuls simply ate it up, doing their best to imitate her.
As typical for many charity balls, there seemed none in attendance in need of such charity. The men were sharply dressed and extravagant in their gestures, waving fine cigars and bragging about their latest financial conquests. The women were worse—they spoke too loudly, wore too much jewelry, and gossiped incessantly as if by dropping a name they proved a new level of worth in their character.
Mrs. Branson’s elitist companions endured the less-than-polished conversation with an air of ancient perfection of breeding, and provided elegant examples of how one must behave. Senza was sure the lessons would be lost on the women, who cared less for what they said than the diction in which it was spoken. She uttered a quick prayer that they would take the honest best of the lectured-upon tenets and retain the best of their own inherent qualities, if they possessed any.